


you catch me every time

by simplyclockwork



Series: natural progression [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Romance, Ficlet, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, POV John Watson, Series, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-02-01 03:44:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: “We go skating at a local rink.It’s late and we are the only two people there.I struggle to stand on the ice but you,you move with ease across the iceI can’t help but stare.you hold my hand and pull me slowlyand I almost fall butyou catch me every time”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: natural progression [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538974
Comments: 8
Kudos: 97





	you catch me every time

**Author's Note:**

> Ficlet 9 in a series of short fics I'm planning to write based on posts from the tumblr account affectionatesuggestion
> 
> Hopefully this isn't too out of character for our pining dumbasses, but I don't really care because I so wanted to write this
> 
> The series will follow a progression into an established Johnlock relationship

When winter falls over London, chill air in November, Sherlock and John find themselves caught in a case that leads them to the Natural History Museum, where threats to steal a priceless exhibit are neutralized when Sherlock connects the dots between an unhappy security guard and a computer IP address.

In thanks, they are given a gift in the form of free access to the skating rink before the Museum, and after hours at that. John quirks an eyebrow at the gift, expecting Sherlock to snort and rebuff such an offer. However, a bright light shines from his eyes and there’s an almost smile and an eagerness that he saves for John only as they are left alone with rented skates and a final thank you.

As John laces the skates onto his feet, fingers clumsy with nervous energy, Sherlock rises and walks to the edge of the rink. With trees festooned with lights all around the rink, the pale, white light paints Sherlock’s face in a soft glow. John watches, breath caught in his mouth, as Sherlock steps out on the ice; moves across the gleaming surface with confident, smooth motions of his long legs. John, skates tied but forgotten, watches with a slightly open mouth as Sherlock navigates the rink with grace and elegance.

“But of course,” John mumbles, getting to his feet with difficulty. “Of _course_ he can bloody well skate.” Walking awkwardly on blades, John braces himself against the edge of the rink. Sherlock, on the other side, swoops along the ice in a wide, circling movement that slowly brings him back to where John hovers uncertainly.

“Coming?” Sherlock invites, skidding to a stop on the sharp edge of his skates. John nods and swallows a heavy lump. But he doesn’t move.

He has not skated since he was a small child, and, with a faint ache rising in his leg, he hesitates with a strange fear, still tightly gripping the boards. Sherlock inches closer, barely a foot away, and cocks his head. His eyes dart over John’s face; note the way his weight shifts away from one side. Understanding rises in his face.

“You’re worried about your leg.” He says, not asking but stating. John looks past him, his face set into hard lines even as his eyes narrow with embarrassment. Sherlock’s own face softens and he moves closer, gripping John’s shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “It will be fine.” He reassures, but there’s a redness in John’s cheeks that rises with angry fear in the doctor’s eyes.

“No, it won’t be.” John’s voice is rough with frustration—at himself, at his mind, at the bullet that brought him home from war. “I’ll fall. I know I will.”

Sherlock shakes his head; quirks his lips in a little smile. “No, you won’t.” He replies, and John looks at him sharply.

“How do you know?” He snaps, self-consciously shrugging his shoulders against the cold. Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, the smile gone, his face considering. Finally, he reaches out a gloved hand.

“Because I do.” He says, and John looks up in surprise. “Now—take my hand.” When John hesitates, Sherlock’s lips quirk again. “Unless you don’t trust me?”

Hearing the evident challenge, John grits his teeth. “Bastard.” He mutters, but takes Sherlock’s hand and allows the other man to pull him, slowly, out onto the ice. John’s feet slide; threaten to slip out from beneath him at the unfamiliar pull at his muscles, and Sherlock is there, moving in close to grip John’s arms with strong hands.

Flustered and deeply embarrassed that he can barely keep himself up, John stares at his traitorous feet. His legs shake and he huffs out a loud, frustrated breath.

“I’m going back.” He declares, trying to turn away and finding himself anchored in place by Sherlock’s grip. He looks up, finds Sherlock’s face close enough that he feels the puff of his warm breath on his skin, and falls silent.

“Ridiculous.” Sherlock murmurs, still holding John by the shoulders. They stand on the ice, silence against their backs. “I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge, John.”

John scowls and his eyes dart away as his face flushes deep red. The warmth of Sherlock’s body is immense in the short distance between them, and it makes his head swim.

“Here,” Sherlock says, his voice soft and strange at the edges. “Hold onto me.” One at a time, he slides his hands down John’s arms until his fingers wrap around John’s wrists. Eyes narrowed, John does the same, gripping Sherlock’s thin forearms through layers of jacket and shirt. John stares into Sherlock’s face, and the detective speaks with their eyes locked:

“Slowly, follow me.”

Sherlock shifts his legs back, a smooth, simple sweep that takes him backwards. John flinches; pushes his feet outwards one at a time, letting Sherlock pull him across the ice. Sherlock watches John’s feet and John watches the detective’s face; notes the intense focus of the other man’s gaze as they slowly drift across the rink.

Struck by the surreal moment, John’s feet stutter, and he tips forward, catching the toe of a skate in the ice. Widening his stance, Sherlock pushes forward and stops John’s momentum, steadying him in place.

As they stand on the ice, John stares at the detective, blindsided and trying to equate the gentleness of the man before him with the one who fired bullets into the wall; the one who snarled and hid his fear in Baskerville; who ran with devil-may-care violence in his veins.

With Sherlock’s hands steady on his arms, they move over the ice in a slow parody of moonlight on a river, and John knows he doesn’t have to worry about falling. If he does, Sherlock will be there. The thought is a comfort, and John smiles as Sherlock guides him over the ice in the quiet November air.


End file.
